


what makes your heart beat and your hands tremble

by boykingofhell (alloftimeandspace)



Series: Codependency, Winchester Style [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is Twenty, Dean is bad at communicating, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam is sad, Sam is sixteen, Wincest - Freeform, dad's on a hunting trip and he left us in a fucking snowstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alloftimeandspace/pseuds/boykingofhell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wasn't really working, and Dean wasn't really drunk.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	what makes your heart beat and your hands tremble

Sam wasn't really working, and Dean wasn't really drunk. But they kept up appearances, dancing the same routine every night in silence. Sam had learned a long time ago that silence was Dean's favourite form of communication. They'd been staying in an old hunting cabin, owned by some friend of Dad's that they'd never heard of. Go figure. Dad was five states away, and probably wasn't knee deep in snow, Sam thought bitterly. There wasn't heat in the cabin, just a fireplace and a dwindling supply of wood. He kept the fire lit all day, hadn't left the damn place since they'd gotten there, two weeks and a snow storm ago. Dean, though, Dean'd been out most of the time, doing God knows what. Drinking, probably. Not enough to get a Winchester drunk, just enough to take the edge off. Finding somewhere to go to escape the chill, to escape Sam, falling in bed with whoever he could and letting them keep him warm, mark him. The thought made Sam's skin crawl.  

He stared hard at the book in front of him and tried to comprehend what he was reading. Tried not to think of whose bed Dean was in. Whose hands were warm against his skin. Wondering what he'd smell like when he stumbled in the door, faking intoxication, bringing in the bitter air. Sometimes it was the clouded smell of cigarettes, cheap smoke and sickly sweet alcohol; sometimes he reeked of drugstore perfume, like his skin was drenched in it. Sam dreaded the nights he came in smelling like cologne that wasn't his, couldn't help wondering if _he_ had looked like Sam.   

He was still on the same page he'd started on when the door opened, and the biting January wind flooded the room. He didn't turn around. Dean's footsteps were uneven, still holding to the pretense that he was drunk. Did it make it easier, to play things off with drunkenness, to never talk about it again? Sam wondered, felt chills running up his spine that he didn't think had anything to do with the weather. Did Dean think he didn't know? The footsteps came closer, floorboards creaking and protesting under the weight. They stopped, a few feet from Sam's chair, and he ignored the urge to turn around. Despite the fire, he was cold, harbouring a chill that settled uncomfortably against his skin and made him shiver. He studied his hands, looking anywhere but at Dean. His fingernails were turning blue, nursing a cold cup of coffee between them. The cold sort of fit his mood. He knew Dean was looking at him, could feel his gaze on the back of his neck. He could've gotten up, thrown on yet another layer. Could've done that a while ago, but he hadn't felt like moving, and now it was too late, with Dean's stare boring into his skull and making his skin itch as he tried to ignore it.   

"Sam." 

He didn't answer. Maybe if he pretended he hadn't heard, they wouldn't have to do this tonight. This was a break in their unspoken routine, and it was his fault; he was the reason for the miles between them, and the guilt sat heavy in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, lungs filling with the smell of wood smoke and coffee.  

"Sam." Dean's voice was quiet, but it carried, expanded to fill the entire room. He had a warm voice, Sam thought, thick in his throat and just this side of sweet. Sam didn't deserve the warmth, the sweetness. The cold suited him, was a punishment just as much as Dean's voice was a reward. His good thing. Dean was his good thing, undeserved. And clearly, Dean'd found other good things, things that weren't Sam. He'd sworn Sam was his good thing. He'd promised. 

Sam couldn't ignore Dean. He was needy, knew he was. All he wanted was reassurance and Dean's arms wrapped around him, and was that so bad? He hadn't been warm in weeks.  

"I know you're not working." 

"I know you're not drunk." 

Dean laughed a little at that and Sam's chest _ached_. "Fair enough." He paused and Sam could sense his uncertainty, creeping out from between layers of confidence. He came closer; Sam could feel his body heat as he leaned against the back of Sam's chair, could smell the whiskey and Coke intermingling on his breath. "Sammy," he murmured softly, head dipping to rest near Sam's bony shoulders. "Talk to me." 

Sam stared straight ahead over the rim of the cup, eyes focusing on a stain on the table with great concentration. "You don't want to hear it." His voice was barely a whisper, almost inaudible beneath the crackling of the fire and the wind howling outside.  

Dean sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his hair, moving from behind Sam to the chair on the other side of the table. "Sammy, look at me." Sam could feel Dean's eyes on his face, searching him. He raised his gaze, staring back at Dean. He didn't have the energy to talk, not about anything that mattered. Everything took so much effort. His body felt heavy, too heavy to move, and his limbs felt disconnected from his body. He dropped his eyes from Dean's face, but he didn't even try to get out of his chair or crawl into bed and forget that the whole interaction had ever happened. Part of him was convinced that he wouldn't move even if he did try, and the other part was too weak. Weak, that's what he was. _Weak_. The worst thing a Winchester could be. He knew Dean could see his weakness, was probably disgusted with him.  

Dean must've said something, but he didn't register the words until he felt Dean's hands reaching out to him and prodding him gently to stand up. He let Dean take the coffee cup from his hands and guide him to his bed, more of a mattress on the floor than a real bed, but it worked. It was comfier than most of their motel beds, anyway. Sam lost himself in his head, could feel everything starting to cave in. And then Dean was saying something else in a soft tone that he didn't catch. "Huh?" he mumbled stupidly, feeling helpless and clumsy under Dean's touch.  

"Stay here for a second," Dean repeated, voice some sort of soothing and Sam just wanted to curl up in it. He stood obediently, waited for Dean to come back with a hoodie and a pair of Dean's sweats. He was too far gone to care about pride, compliantly let Dean pull the hoodie over his head and hold him up while he changed from jeans to sweatpants. They hung loose on his hips; he had to knot the strings twice. The shame would catch up to him in the morning but he was too numb and tired then, and didn't register anything except 'Dean', repeating over and over in his head like a mantra. Or a prayer.  

His eyes were heavy with sleep and they kept falling closed as he sank down on the edge of the mattress and followed Dean's movements, checking the salt lines and the locks, and then shucking his jeans unceremoniously into the corner, followed by his shirt. Dean was all lean muscle and cut lines, Sam's Apollo. Sam was scrawny, clumsy, dangling limbs and a crooked smile, hyper aware of himself as he watched Dean. The differences between them were startling, so much easier to see when he felt like total shit, when he was sitting half asleep and thinking too hard. Dean was _good_ , trained well in all the ways that Sam was only  _acceptable_ , the word given to him by Dad when he finished second. _Acceptable_. Deft movements, skilled at cleaning guns and packing up and leaving with five minutes notice. Dean barely made mistakes, was never admonished for his the way Sam was. He fought naturally, knew how to kill the way Sam knew Latin. And only one of those was actually useful in saving lives. In saving themselves. Sam watched the curve of Dean's back as he rifled through a pile of clothes on the floor and found something warm and decently clean to change into. The thought nagged in the back of Sam's mind that they needed to do laundry and he wondered why it was so important just then.

He expected Dean to cross the room and collapse into his own makeshift bed and ignore Sam. They hadn't shared a bed in a while, and he missed his big brother, felt like he was going to burst from loneliness sometimes. It was his fault, but that didn't make it any better. Didn't make the bed feel any emptier. 

But to his surprise, Dean walked towards him and sat down next to him on the mattress, looking at Sam with an emotion he couldn't quite place. Fondness, maybe? Sam found himself staring at Dean's mouth, watching him chew on his bottom lip. He saw blood blossom from underneath his teeth, saw it spread across his chapped lips and watched as Dean ran his tongue across his lips and the blood disappeared. Things were starting to blur, everything heavy and thick with sleepiness, more so with the lights turned out and the room dark save for the dim orange glow of the fireplace. The silence stretched out across the empty space. Everything was starting to feel distorted and Sam wondered if maybe he was drunk too, drunk on coffee or tiredness or the proximity of Dean's body to his. Dean's face was half shadowed and he thought maybe he'd only imagined the expression on his face earlier, been too exhausted to see it properly in the dark. Dean sighed heavily and broke the silence, reaching out to rub Sam's back. Sam gravitated drowsily towards his touch, falling against Dean's side with half lidded eyes and sleep slurred movements. Dean tilted his head down and rested his mouth against the top of Sam's head. "Let's get some sleep, kiddo." 

"You're staying?"  

"I'm staying," Dean confirmed, a hint of a smile playing across his lips and intermingling with sadness.  

Sam followed Dean's nudges and found himself lying down with Dean next to him, shifting to pull the blankets over the two of them. Dean turned and curled an arm around Sam, pulling him as close as he could. His other arm reached up to card gently through Sam's hair. "You need a haircut," he mumbled into Sam's neck. He always said that. It was familiar, comforting in an odd way. Sam was too tired to answer, just wiggled closer to Dean and tucked his head under Dean's chin, pressing his face into Dean's chest and steadying his breathing, cheek resting against the softness of Dean's flannel. "Don't leave," he managed to get out, already fighting sleep. His voice didn't sound like his, but it was okay. Dean understood. Dean was there, warm against him.

"'M not gonna leave," Dean promised, tangling his legs with Sam's and wrapping his arm tighter around him. Sam relaxed and let the heaviness of his body win. Dean would be there when he woke up. It would be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr - http://demonblood-boyking.tumblr.com/  
> // currently taking fic requests //


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